


Where My Heart Was Made & My Feet Will Always Land

by ghostboi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Dean Takes Care Of Sam, Fluff, Protective Dean Winchester, Sweet Moments, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:37:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that Dean "mom'd" Sam & one time he didn't</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where My Heart Was Made & My Feet Will Always Land

**Author's Note:**

> fluff/sweet moments. 
> 
> Title from "Mother and Father" by The Broods

i.

When he was two years old, he fell and scraped his knee. Dean picked him up and carried him into the house-of-the-month, and sat him down on the couch. His big brother cleaned away the blood and dirt and bandaged his knee with all the tenderness in the world, dried his tears, and kissed his forehead. Then he took him out for an ice cream cone at the Gas-N-Sip down the block, carrying him piggy-back the whole way there and back.

 

ii.

When he was nine years old, their father was away for “work” and he and Dean were in some rent-by-the-month motel room. He was lying in bed, shivering with chills from a fever and feeling miserable. His head ached, his throat ached, and he was cold one minute and burning up the next. He was squirming in the bed, trying to get comfortable, when his brother appeared beside him. “Here, Sammy,” his brother sat next to him on the bed and helped him sit up, “Brought you some soup.” 

“Don’t want it,” he muttered. He just wanted to get comfortable and sleep.

“Eat it and I’ll read to you,” the older boy promised. Sam stopped wiggling and allowed Dean to help him eat the warm soup. When he was finished, the older boy kept his promise and crawled into the bed next to him. He pulled Sam up against him and opened a battered, worn copy of “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” He fell asleep snuggled in his brother’s arms with Dean’s voice in his ear, telling him, “It’s okay, Sammy. I’ve got you.”

 

iii.

When he was 11 years old, he and Dean were attending some school in their town-of-the-moment. They were about to walk inside on their first day, when Dean stopped him and, holding him by the shoulders, inspected him. “You’re going to do awesome, Sammy,” his big brother told him with a grin. Sam grimaced and tried to pull away as Dean suddenly licked his palm and used it to flatten Sam’s unruly hair. “Yuck, Dean,” he told his brother, and Dean smirked.

 

iv.

When he was 15 years old, he came home with a black eye and a cut lip. He was learning to fight but three boys at school had jumped him, and he hadn’t yet grown into his height. He hadn’t been certain why, except on of them kept saying “You were talking to my girlfriend.” When he had made it home, scuffed and tired, after fighting them off, he had attempted to hide in the bedroom he was sharing with Dean in this month’s rental house. It hadn’t worked: Dean had sought him out upon arriving home, and had demanded to know who hit him. The older boy – a man now, at 19 – had been oddly quiet as Sam explained what had happened, and after. He had fixed an ice pack for Sam’s eye and had spent the remainder of the evening and night at “home” with him, instead of going out. 

Dean had dropped him at school the next morning, and had picked him up the following afternoon. Sam had pointed out the boys whom had jumped him at Dean’s insistence, and the man had driven them home.

The day after that, the three boys had come to Sam and apologized, swearing that they would never touch him again. Two of them were sporting black eyes of their own and the third had a large, purplish bruise on his cheek. None of them would meet his gaze.

He saw them as he was leaving the school that afternoon. He was walking toward Dean’s car – the three boys were walking a short distance ahead of him. They balked upon seeing Dean, leaning against the shiny black Impala. All three turned and shot across the parking lot in the other direction. 

Sam was smiling when he climbed in the car.

 

v.

When he was 24 years old, they were in yet another small town on another case. They were cruising down a street when a car in front of them suddenly slammed to a stop, red brake lights flashing. Dean let out a low curse as he threw out an arm, his hand coming to rest on Sam’s chest. The younger Winchester glanced down at his hand and then at his brother, before asking, “Did you just ‘mom’ me?” 

“What?” Dean dropped his hand as if he was pretending he hadn’t just thrown his arm out to prevent his brother from being slung forward in his seat, “No, I didn’t.” 

“Yes you did!” A grin touched Sam’s features, showing his dimples. He laughed as Dean’s face reddened slightly, “You just “mom’d” me.” 

Dean reached out and turned up the radio as he muttered, embarrassed, “Shut up, Sam.”

 

vi.

When he was 26 years old, they were in Arizona and had just finished a case involving some nasty ghouls. They had spent half the previous night out in the cold rain, and now Dean was lying on his motel bed, huddled beneath three blankets. The older man was running a slight fever and was hoarse, and had a harsh, dry cough. 

Dean opened his eyes as Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, a bottle of water and several Tylenol in hand. He felt his brother’s head, a frown etching his features, then insisted his brother take the Tylenol. Dean grumbled for a moment but obeyed and laid back down to sleep some more.

When he opened his eyes several hours later, he felt awful. His aching throat was dry and he needed water, but sitting up seemed to be too much effort at the moment. His eyes shifted to his brother as Sam sat down on the edge of his bed, holding a bottle of water. “Come on,” the bigger man gently helped him sit up and gave him the water. When he was finished, Sam reached over and picked up a bowl of soup from the bedside table. “Brought you some soup,” the man adjusted him with little effort so that he was sitting up against him, wrapped beneath Sam’s muscled arm. 

“I can feed myself, Sam,” he grumbled hoarsely, eyes slipping closed. The soup smelled good but he was pretty tired. Maybe he would eat later. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” his brother’s words were gentle, as were his movements as he shifted them so that Sam was sitting up against the headboard with Dean snuggled against his side, “I’ve got you.”


End file.
